miz lonelyhearts in the lone star state

She's at it again: the fantabulistic Jilly (aka Jill Alexander Essbaum), having returned stateside (namely, the Republic of Tejas) from a lengthy sojourn in Switzerland, is moving and shaking on The Best American Poetry Blog. No longer qualified to be a European correspondent, she's set up shop as an advice-to-the-lovelorn-and-poetry-challenged columnist (at least for this week). Head over to her "Dear Jill" posts...and send her your romantic and poetic "befuddled messes," as she puts it. She's spot-on, pulls no punches, and cracks me up.

classic gothic

This evening from 6-7 pm, I'm introducing a reading of classic gothic fiction and poetry, as part of the Museum at FIT's exhibit Gothic: Dark Glamour. FIT faculty, students, and even an alumna will read selections from such favorites as Poe's "The Raven," Stevensons, "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," and, yes, Bronte's Wuthering Heights.

It will take place in the Museum's Tile Gallery, on the lower level of the E Building, 7th Avenue at 27th Street.

Now I'm off to find a shawl worthy of Heathcliff's Cathy!

down syndrome awareness month

Hard to believe that it's been a year since I took up Tricia's "31 for 21 Challenge" and posted almost every day during October, Down Syndrome Awareness Month. I've been too busy and distracted to post about it yet this year, but it has definitely been on my mind, especially as the election frenzy escalates.

Readers who know me will find it as no surprise that I am not a fan of Sarah Palin. I think McCain's choosing her was a cheap shot; I agree with those of you who think she is unqualified and find the prospect of having her as second in command downright frightening. I have strong objections to her political and ideological views, to put it mildly. I hope Barack and Joe kick their behinds all the way to the Arctic Circle.

But I have to admit that I am not ungrateful for the positive attention that her son Trig has brought to the Down syndrome community (I won't go into the negative attention, often in the name of "political humor," rife with uses of the "R word" and other slurs). The fact that someone so in the public eye is the parent of a child with Down syndrome can only shed light on the condition and the many individuals who have it.

Let's just hope some of that positive focus lingers, even when Trig's mom and her running mate, um, well....we shall see in just a few weeks, shan't we?

Oh, and as a special treat, here's a pic from Stella's day out in the city--including a Dan Zanes and Friends concert--last spring with her new friend, Emma Sage, and blogger mama pal, Tara (photographer extraordinaire).

emotion and calmness

From Nature doth emotion come, and moods
Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:
This is her glory--these two attributes
Are sister horns that constitute her strength;
This twofold influence is the sun and shower
Of all her bounties, both in origin
And end alike benignant. Hence it is
That genius, which exists by interchange
Of peace and excitation, finds in her
His best and purest friend--from her receives
That energy by which he seeks the truth
Is rouzed, aspires, grasps, struggles, wishes, craves
From her that happy stillness of the mind
Which fits him to receive it when unsought.

William Wordsworth, The Prelude, (1805) Book Twelfth

Sometimes when I'm feeling agitated, unsettled, or even a bit desperate, I grab a book of poetry and open it, I-ching style, to see what comes up. The passage above was the result of such a search today. In the margin are my notes from a summer class I took in graduate school with the wonderful Professor Les Chard. In blue pencil (leftover from my freelance editing job) I wrote, "emotion & calmness," "active & passive," "grace?" and " 'rehabilitation'."

Although Wordsworth is clearly asserting his belief in the power of capital-N Nature to foster the imagination and restore "right reason," it spoke to me more about the vicissitudes of human nature, in particular my own vacillations between intensity and calm.

It was a quiet day on the surface here, but internally I weathered storms worthy of Prospero's books. This happens from time to time--a plunge into the depths, feeling unable to navigate the turbulent waves. I guess I am still seeking some sort of guidance, and these times are when I feel its lack most keenly. For now, I'll just try to keep feeling my way until the tempests pass and light breaks through the clouds again.

the "d" word

It's been almost a year now. It wasn't my idea. On Halloween night, 2007, my partner of over 14 years and husband of more than 12 informed me that he wanted to separate. I knew we had our problems, that neither of us was what anyone could call "happy," that our difficulties had increased markedly in the past few years. But I just didn't consider divorce to be an option. My parents have remained married, happily from all accounts, for better or for worse, since June 9, 1962. I expected the same from my marriage. Bob and I had always said we would stay together no matter what. We had two kids we both adored, one with special needs. We needed each other to get through the days and weeks, sharing parenting so we could both work and scrape together a living in New York City. During those moments when things got particularly tense and the subject of splitting came up, we quickly dismissed the idea, mainly because of the kids.

So now it was on the table, and I had no choice. He wanted to separate for "at least six months," then revisit the marriage. Meanwhile, we would work with a mediator on a separation agreement. He slept on the couch or stayed at a relative's until December, after Bobby's birthday party, when he moved into a shared apartment a few blocks away. It wasn't until January that I realized that he didn't really want a trial separation and faced the fact that my marriage was over.

The past year has been one of the more difficult of my life so far. The hurt and confusion behind this post from last November was only the beginning. I've weathered countless emotional storms and found myself blindsided again and again by feelings I thought I had already been through, dealt with, put behind me. I've learned that grief, as so many of you must know, is not a linear process. You don't progress through Kubler-Ross's stages steadily and in an orderly fashion--anger, guilt, even denial cycle back often when you least expect it.

Now, though, nearly a year later, I can honestly say that it is very likely our lives--all of our lives, the kids' included--may very well be better for this decision. In the intervening months I have had many opportunities to mull over our relationship and see the signs that I had ignored all along, the issues I thought I was willing to compromise on but deep down allowed to fester into anger, bad humor, ultimately contributing to depression and other stresses in my life.

What I feel best about now is the fact that, no matter how stormy or venomous or uncontrollable my emotions seemed, I never allowed them to push me into decisions that would be less than ideal for my children. As the title of this blog implies, I am no saint, and I made mistakes, acting out, venting within earshot of the kids when I felt I couldn't avoid it. There were times that I actually hated their father, I couldn't stand the sight of him in the cramped two-bedroom apartment that had been "ours" but was now mine, where for logistical reasons he took care of the kids most of the time. The boundaries were blurred, and I wanted clarity.

I couldn't imagine parenting these wonderful and challenging little people on my own, but working with their dad now that we were no longer life partners seemed equally impossible. Friends suggested I give up on mediation and get a lawyer who would help me get what I "deserved." Family members urged me to get full custody, even move away from New York. But I knew how much that would hurt our children, and although I wanted nothing to do with him anymore, I got through it and somehow put up with it (albeit often kicking and screaming) for their sake. I honestly don't know how, since I'm not exactly the martyr type, but it has gradually gotten easier, and now things seem much less fraught.

Now that we are within striking distance of closing the marriage chapter of our lives, I can appreciate the good things about the man I married. Bob is a wonderful father. The kids adore him. He is also a good friend, and now that I have started to recover from the heartbreak his choice has caused, I can see the possibility of a future that includes my children, a parenting partner, and perhaps even new relationships that are happier and more functional. The marriage is broken, but the family goes on and--I think, I hope--thrives.

saved by the Mel

What a lovely day to be caught in the rain (or at least drizzle and fog). I've been car-sitting for a friend who's overseas for a month--I get to use the car in exchange for moving it on the alternate-side parking days. When he dropped it off my friend noted that the automatic windows were temperamental and had stopped working, leaving them stuck open. "They always start up again eventually," he assured me. Unfortunately, though, they didn't start up again, no matter how many times I tried, and by the end of the week there was heavy rain in the forecast. When the deluge began on Thursday night, I was out on the street trying to cover the windows with garbage bags and electrical tape. You can imagine how well that worked.

So today I used the car to take Bobby to a birthday party and drop Stella off at Dad's. The car wasn't totally waterlogged, fortunately, but I did get a wet behind from the seat (and so did Stella). I went to lunch at a lovely cafe in Long Island City, savoring salade nicoise, cafe au lait, and pain au chocolat, chuckling over the latest issue of The Onion, and generally clearing my head of some muck and gunk that had built up for a few days.

Afterwards I started up the car again, intending to swing by Socrates Sculpture Park. Immediately one of the best vocal renditions of all time came on WNYC: Mel Torme's "Lullaby of Broadway." I snapped my fingers, bopping and singing along, as I made my way up Jackson Avenue. At a stop sign on a side street, I idly pressed the window control button, as I had so many times the past few days in a futile attempt to get the windows to close. This time, the window went right up. I pushed the other three buttons. The other three windows went up, too!

Maybe it was driving around a bit, charging the battery. Maybe it was hitting some bump that got some shorted-out wire in the system to reconnect. But I like to think it was Mel, the Velvet Fog at his scat-cat best, filling the little car with his special brand of electricity on a foggy day in L.I.C.

hard times come again no more

After hours of "YouTubing" various musical selections (with a heavy emphasis on one of my faves, Rufus Wainwright), I found this gem. The Stephen Foster song, penned just before the Civil War, is powerful in its simplicity--I first became aware of it in a version by Syd Straw and John Doe on Syd's album Surprise. This version, with a very young Rufus, his mom Kate and aunt Anna McGarrigle, Emmylou Harris, Mary Black, and others I have yet to identify, is simultaneously goosebump-inducing and healing. Enjoy.

this lovely book

Vicki is sharing with us the cover for her beautiful book, This Lovely Life. From all appearances, it will be almost as beautiful outside as inside. Almost.

She has also, miraculously, been blogging in the wake of her unthinkable loss. Some of the entries chronicle the painstaking process of revising her manuscript for publication. Six passes, she says! Brava, brave Vicki!

friday thoughts

The date says Saturday, but it's still Friday night as far as I'm concerned. The book party last night was a smashing success. And it only reminded me even more acutely how lucky I am to have my collaborators, the One O'Clock Poets. We are all lucky to have found each other and kept coming together once a month, sometimes more, sometimes less. The process has really helped me bring so many poems to the page, and make them better and stronger.

In other news, I'm tired, but I can't get myself to go to bed.

two full green hours--TONIGHT!

In case you're in NYC this evening and looking for something to do...
You’re Invited to a Poetry Book Party

Come Celebrate This Full Green Hour: An Anthology by the One O’Clock Poets

GUILLERMO CASTRO
AMY LEMMON
KATRINKA MOORE
JOAN LAURI POOLE
ELIZABETH POREBA
SARAH STERN

Thursday, September 18, 2008

7:00-9:00 p.m.

Teachers and Writers Collaborative
520 Eighth Avenue (between 36th and 37th Streets), Suite 2020, New York City
For directions please visit: www.twc.org/events.


This Full Green Hour, published by Sonopo Press, will be available for purchase.
Light refreshments will be served.

***

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THIS FULL GREEN HOUR

“The poems of Castro, Lemmon, Moore, Poole, Poreba, and Stern riff off one another most delightfully through subject matter and syntax. These Magnificent Six have accomplished something amazing—a dynamic and tangential conversation through poems, each voice intelligent, nuanced, distinct.”
—Denise Duhamel

“A disarmingly playful spirit of generous camaraderie is at the heart of this anthology. Boldly, it intersperses the work of six distinctive poets in such a way that we not only get to know the individual voices, but are also let in on their poetic conversation…. This hour is indeed a full one.”
—Elaine Equi

“These six poets lead the reader to moments of delicious tension and exhilarating discoveries.”
—Scott Hightower

two full green hours--TONIGHT!

In case you're in NYC this evening and looking for something to do...
You’re Invited to a Poetry Book Party

Come Celebrate This Full Green Hour: An Anthology by the One O’Clock Poets

GUILLERMO CASTRO
AMY LEMMON
KATRINKA MOORE
JOAN LAURI POOLE
ELIZABETH POREBA
SARAH STERN

Thursday, September 18, 2008

7:00-9:00 p.m.

Teachers and Writers Collaborative
520 Eighth Avenue (between 36th and 37th Streets), Suite 2020, New York City
For directions please visit: www.twc.org/events.


This Full Green Hour, published by Sonopo Press, will be available for purchase.
Light refreshments will be served.

***

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THIS FULL GREEN HOUR

“The poems of Castro, Lemmon, Moore, Poole, Poreba, and Stern riff off one another most delightfully through subject matter and syntax. These Magnificent Six have accomplished something amazing—a dynamic and tangential conversation through poems, each voice intelligent, nuanced, distinct.”
—Denise Duhamel

“A disarmingly playful spirit of generous camaraderie is at the heart of this anthology. Boldly, it intersperses the work of six distinctive poets in such a way that we not only get to know the individual voices, but are also let in on their poetic conversation…. This hour is indeed a full one.”
—Elaine Equi

“These six poets lead the reader to moments of delicious tension and exhilarating discoveries.”
—Scott Hightower

blogalalia

I. Am. So. Tired. I can't believe I still haven't posted yet on the BAP blog. I'm in the middle of it. As soon as I finish, I can go to bed. Ahhhhhh.

mad for BAP!

This is the THIRD TIME I HAVE TRIED TO POST THIS! Dang Mozilla Firefox. Please go to the Best American Poetry blog, not only because I am a guest blogger this week, but because I am in such fantastic company (including pals Bruce, Denise, Jilly, Jimmy, Moira, Reb, et al.) that I am humbled.

random notes

It's the second week of classes here at FIT, hence the blog-silence. Just too much to do, to think about, to compose and type and disseminate. The kids are having a bit of trouble getting used to the back-to-school routine, which means Mom has to stay up with them until they finally settle down (which has, unfortunately, been more like 10:30 or 11).

The good news: 1) Thanks to Stella's respite worker Krystal, we've found an afterschool program, where she will go three days a week (Krystal works there, so she'll have a pal to acclimate her, and someone to bring her home). She'll make friends, do homework, and generally keep the learning going after school hours.
2) I love my classes! I'm teaching two sections of Creative Nonfiction, one online Creative Writing class, and a brand-new course, Poetry Writing, that my colleague Stan and I created. All of them are chock-full of eager, bright, and energetic people who are diving right in to explore the writing process (and, of course, reading some great stuff as examples and inspiration).
3) I have a new favorite band: FLEET FOXES. The Rolling Stone blog says, "Think CSNY performing Pet Sounds." I've become obsessed with their harmony-laden, acoustic-based, folk-and-pop influenced stuff, so much so that I paid someone about double face value for tickets to one of their sold-out NYC shows in October. Go to YouTube and check out "White Winter Hymnal," then listen to the Beach Boys' "Don't Worry Baby," and you'll see what I mean. (I actually played them at the same time and realized that both songs are not only in the same key, but nearly the same tempo.)
4) WFUV is playing Andrew Bird right now. RIGHT NOW. (Well, they were when I started this post.)
5) The new exhibit at the Museum at FIT opens tonight: GOTHIC: Dark Glamour, and I'm going to the opening! The exhibit opens in tandem with the release of the book of the same name, a collection of essays edited by Valerie Steele (one of my personal heroes) and Jennifer Park. There are a whole series of special events connected with the book and show, including a Tim Burton film fest, and two literary readings of gothic works, classic and contemporary. In a bit I will be donning my version of "gothic"--all black, of course, rather subdued, and no dramatic makeup--can't wait to see what the rest of the crowd is wearing!

the magic of 47

It's my buddy MacGregor's birthday! He's turned 47, that weird and magic number. Head on over to Glossophagia and wish him a happy one! And you can read about the number 47 here.

ABBA on BAP!

The editors of the Best American Poetry Blog have generously posted "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" the first of two ABBA poems they'll be putting up, written collaboratively by Denise Duhamel and myself.

While you're there, check out the postings by this week's fabulous guest blogger, Moira Egan! Bravissima!

some links: two very kind mentions

I've had the pleasure of having my work mentioned on a couple of sites recently, and thought I would pass along some links to you-all. On August 4th, WFIU in Bloomington, Indiana, broadcast Jenny Kander reading my poems "Scar" and "Cardinal" on her lovely program "The Poets' Weave." Click here to listen to the podcast.

Also, the fantastically creative, wise, and compassionate Susan O'Doherty (author of Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity, described two readings from Letters to the World, including the one I participated in at Cornelia Street.

Go here to read the post.

back in nyc

I made it back a bit ago and decided to jump online before I begin the prospective ordeal that is returning the rental car (in case you haven't heard, I had a minor accident a few weeks ago that resulted in the insurance company declaring the Honda minivan--2001, 160,000 miles--a total loss).

The kids and I had a great time with family and friends in Ohio and PA. The drives were, for the most part, uneventful (I managed somehow to keep the kids from killing each other in the back seat, and Stella only got out of her seatbelt a couple of times). We were much more comfortable than I'd expected due to a surprise upgrade from "full-sized" to "luxury"--they gave us a Dodge Charger, a huge black mobile that my brother David called a "mafia car."

As always, re-entry is a little hard. Fortunately, the touch of flu I picked up at the end of the week has been summarily dispatched by a new miracle drug--Tamiflu--and I feel almost normal, physically.

Perhaps I will head to the gym after the rental gauntlet. And a quiet evening at home before things start up, bright and early, at FIT tomorrow. I hereby resolve to post more frequently, even while the crazy semester is going on.

In the meantime, go to MacGregor's blog for a fantastic Robert Lowell poem.

the tao of yellow springs

Just a few miles south of my parents' house lies the lovely village of Yellow Springs, Ohio. It's sort of like a little oasis of artsiness and liberalism in conservative Southwestern Ohio. I find myself spending a lot of time there when I'm back home. The Antioch Writers' Workshop, Ohio Silver, and Dino's Cappucinos are some highlights. The kids are partial to Mister Fub's Party, an eclectic toy store that has been there at least since I was in college.

Have spent time there with some very good friends, taken yoga classes at a lovely studio on Dayton Street.

And, of course, there is the Local Celebrity, whom the kids and I saw hanging out on a bench the other day.

I think I'll head into the village for a latte now...

what's "hi" in the middle....

So here I am in (uncharacteristically cool, un-humid) Ohio. Had a wonderful family gathering last night--which turned out to be a birthday party for me, my bro John, and my nephew Sammy--who knew? Got to see all of the siblings who are still hanging around near here, and to meet Don, who will be my brother-in-law in May when he marries my youngest sister, Katy. I'm so happy that she has found love again after such a tragic loss, and that she and the boys have a great guy like Don in their lives now. And he is a fabulous cook--Don and Katy whipped up a Mexican fiesta of a feast. I'm glad there is some of that cheese dip left over.

Today my horoscope says, "Embrace your shortcomings by accepting where you are in life, but don't try to change your current attitude by rewriting your history. Write your future instead." Sounds like a plan, if I can manage it. Here's to the future...

Letters to the World reading tonight!

Just a reminder, in case you haven't received the email blast or Facebook invite. I'm excited to be part of this reading to promote the wonderful anthology of poetry by women!
Tuesday, August 5, 6:00 p.m.
Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street, New York, NY
LETTERS TO THE WORLD ANTHOLOGY READING
Cover $7 (includes one house drink)
Poets LouAnn Shepard Muhm, Mendi Lewis Obadike and Amy Lemmon read from the international anthology Letters to the World (Red Hen Press), joined by NYC poet Tim Suermondt.

quotable quotes

It was a wild and wacky weekend. I spent way more time than I probably should have on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Here are some random bits:

"I respected him in a certain way--with his hookers and his plaid--because the world was changing, and it wasn't for the better."
--MacGregor Rucker, Lower East Side, 8/2/08

"Just because it's poetry doesn't mean we have to slit our wrists."
--Greg Sanders, East Village, 8/3/08

"The android in you loves the android in me."
--Paula Carino, live performance at Arlene's Grocery, 8/2/08

"Cell phone or schizo? It's really hard to know."
--The Larch, ibid.

"Come on over, drunk or sober."
--The Actual Facts, ibid.

And one more, perhaps providing a gloss on much of the previous:

"ALCOHOL: THE CAUSE OF, AND THE SOLUTION TO, ALL OF LIFE'S PROBLEMS."
--Chalkboard behind the bar at Arlene's Grocery

two readings!

Two readings coming up, both Red Hen-related, one wacky and impromptu, the other well-planned in advance:

Sunday, August 3, 6:30 p.m.
Home Sweet Home, 121 Chrystie St. nr. Delancey St.
New York,NY 10002
FREE admission
In conjunction with Envoy Gallery and the Thorstein Foundation, Opium magazine presents a Sunday evening litstravaganza like never before. Hosted via satellite (aka iChat) by Opium founding editor and Literary Death Match co-creator Todd Zuniga, onlookers will hear Americans Greg Sanders and Amy Lemmon live from NYC, Lee Bob Black, an Australian, tape delayed from NYC, and Nick Royle taped delayed one second via iChat (aka satellite) from Manchester, UK. Plus, the readers will be interviewed in lightning fashion. Excitements galore!
---

Tuesday, August 5, 6:00 p.m.
Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street, New York, NY
LETTERS TO THE WORLD ANTHOLOGY READING
Cover $7 (includes one house drink)
Poets LouAnn Shepard Muhm, Mendi Lewis Obadike and Amy Lemmon read from the international anthology Letters to the World (Red Hen Press), joined by NYC poet Tim Suermondt.

bearing down

OK, Red Hen absolutely, positively needs the final manuscript of Saint Nobody TODAY. I'm gonna finish it. They gave me an extension because I had a car accident last Thursday (I'm OK, but the car may be totaled--we're waiting to hear from the insurance company today). I just submitted final grades for my online classes on Wednesday. Stella's bus comes at 2:45, so I have five and a half hours.

I've been working on a couple of poems I have just not been satisfied with--one of them, "Venus of the Interstate," is even in the chapbook, Fine Motor.
Time to shut the laptop and get to it.

finally writing again

I did it. I went to Paragraph yesterday for the first time in months, and I wrote. After dropping Bobby off at Tae Kwon Do camp I found myself on the subway going to an appointment that was actually for today. so I headed to 14th Street. My key still worked, I remembered my combination for the inside lock. I went into the "quiet space" and found one of my favorite desks empty. I checked my locker and found some books I had been missing, and a brand-new Mead composition book. Then I settled in.

It was like magic: I did my "morning pages" first, then browsed through some of the books for inspiration--The Mind and the Brain by Schwartz and Begley, Page After Page by Heather Sellers, The Poet's Companion by Addonizio and Laux. I had also brought with me Joy Katz's fabulous first collection, Fabulae.

First I did some serious revision of one of the Saint Nobody poems, "Venus of the Interstate." It's in my chapbook Fine Motor, but I'm just not happy with it. I had sent it to several poet friends for their feedback, and somehow yesterday was able to really give it a thorough working over. I don't think it's "finished," but maybe I am ready to "abandon" it (pace Valery and Leonardo).

Then I went into the "cafe space" for a snack, and was inspired by a China Green Tips bag, of all things, to draft a completely new poem.

All told, I was there about three hours before I had to head home for Stella's bus. In that short time I was reminded that I can do this. I was able to feel that full-of-words, full-of-images, full-of-infinite-connections that means poems are in progress.

Thanks, Paragraph! I think I will be continuing my membership.

love for Evan's family

Please send your thoughts and prayers to my dear friend Vicki Forman, her husband Cliff Kamida, and their daughter Josie as they commemorate the life of Evan David Kamida. There is a public viewing this evening from 5-7 PST and a memorial service tomorrow at 11 a.m. PST. Vicki's blog has more details, and a beautiful photo of Evan taken recently at school.

me and little j.a.

I am honored to share a birthday with the great American poet John Ashbery. Edward Byrne has a wonderfully informative post on his blog about the association between J.A. and the painter Fairfield Porter.

I had a lovely celebration with good friends on Saturday night involving dinner at Little Giant and a serious hang at my new favorite place, The Whiskey Ward (incredible DJ playing XTC, New Order, U2, and other excellent "vintage" tunes). Tonight the kids and I are having a little fete at home with my good friend and fellow Astorian, Lee.

I wonder how Mr. Ashbery is celebrating?

saddened into silence

Please go here and here.

what an idiot

The ever-vigilant Vicki pointed out this article in today's New York Times, evidence that there is still an incredible amount of ignorance out there about developmental disabilities. I won't even put the dude's name in this post since that would only give more energy to his words (and people would find my blog by googling him, argh).

cost of living

I'm back in the Big Dirty after a lovely week in the Pacific Northwest. This morning after getting the kids off to school and camp I had a very expensive hour and a half. First, I bought 12 gallons of gas. Then I went to Key Food and stocked up, not only on food, but on cleaning supplies and those funky newfangled lightbulbs. As the cashier scanned the items and the tally mounted I joked to myself I'd need a second mortgage to pay for it--the joke being that I don't have a first mortgage.

Then I had to park at a hydrant for a few minutes while I lugged all the stuff upstairs (the alternate side parking rules meant there were no parking spaces in front of our building until 10 a.m.). Sure enough, when I came down, a lovely young woman was writing me a ticket. When I asked her to stop writing it she says, "How can I stop writing? I can't stop writing once I've started." It occurred to me how much I would like to hear that in a very different context--say, from my students, or myself. It also occurred to me that my groceries were costing me another $115 now that a ticket was in the mix.

Welcome home.

lives of nobody's saint

There was a man in the East named Nobody, and that man was like another Job, great among all the people of the East. For he was great in race and lineage, great in power, great in knowledge, great in compassion and mercy, great in manifold perfection, great in honor and reverence, great in daring, great in glory and felicity. All these things are shown in Holy Scripture.

I'm working on final corrections (yikes!) to the manuscript of Saint Nobody. And this morning I've been reading about the medieval and early modern tradition of the Saint Nobody--sometimes called Nemo, Nought, Niemand, etc. Awhile back a reader of this blog told me about Martha Bayless's book Parody in the Middle Ages: The Latin Tradition, which has translations and original Latin texts of some very interesting stuff.

Right now I'm reading "The Combined Nemo"--a wickedly tongue-in-cheek treatise on the holy figure of Nobody that basically compiles a lot of references in the bible to things that "nobody" is, does, or can do. It's very bizarre. (Scroll all the way down this page to see one 16th-century representation of a secular Nobody, who is to blame for all the broken and missing things in a bourgeois household. It's most likely going to be on the cover of my book.)

Another article I read mentions the connection between a Nobody character and the wise fool, such as Shakespeare's Fool in Lear. It occurs to me that this character must also be connected to one of my favorite tarot cards--The Fool, which has the number zero in the major arcana.

I'm not sure how any of this is going to help me finish my book, but it's a lot of fun to mess around with and think about.

"a place of first permission"

--Robert Duncan

For me it is that back yard, that grand half acre, green and groaning with wind and insects, the lying on my back looking at the sky, blue with clouds impossibly high--the blue I ascribe to someone's eyes, someone who once looked at me nakedly [in wonder in admiration in disbelief in... love?]--someone whose eyes turned on me so briefly and are so turned no longer.

"She it is Queen Under The Hill" the mother the other the me
the girl lying on the grass, the cottonwood fluff floating in the still-clear air of late May
the ground beneath with its little bumps and craters
the field beyond opening and opening

Often I, too, am permitted to return to a meadow and to that yard adjacent to the meadow. The two trees gone--or is it just one gone, one remaining? The terrible storms and the chainsaw, the firewood. The former gravel pit greened over and good for sledding.

The cows. The creek. The crawdads in the creek, the sunnies and bluegills and very occasional trout. The full catastrophe of country cliches, the down-home dowsing, the swampiness and black black loamy muck aspark with weeds.

"a disturbance of words within words" and the hollow tree for imagining Alice's rabbit.

The wet legs, the sopping shoes, the mud of it. The cud. The thistles and the flowers on the thistles. Queen Anne's lace and miniature daisies. Escape and bringing a friend and making up friends as you go along the streambanks.

The place of place.

puget sound bound

Next week I will be at historic Fort Worden State Park for the Port Townsend Writers' Conference. I get to spend a little time with friends in Seattle at either end, too.

I'm not doing a workshop--just a writers' retreat. And there's a wonderful movement studio right on the state park premises. I've been to Vancouver, for the AWP conference a few years ago, but never to Washington State.

I'm really excited. I'll feel even better after the 6 and a half hour flight is over, I'm sure, and I will able to see the fabulous work of my friend David in person.

Today I bought a huge suitcase and two new hoodies (emulating Kim's fashion sense, and also layering for the weather). Tomorrow it's laundry, a couple of errands, and time with the kids, who will be back from the Jersey Shore--before I leave on Saturday.

In the meantime, lots and lots of grading. (Hello, EN361 online students!!!)

a rose is roses

I bought the roses for myself. That's the time I needed. I needed rose. A rose in the valley with lilies. The lilies were too expensive. The lilies were. Under my mother's bay window in the backyard and they were in the backyard in the old house, too. She had planted from bulbs perennial. How had they been? How and where? Who and why? The nerve!

The bracketing of a life by roses--ivory tinged with green and the tips slightly rosy, dawn-like. The roses in plastic. The caterer buying roses at market, fancying herself a midwestern Martha Stewart. It was 1996, end of the milennium, end of the century. End of a time with a way of life, end of one city and beginning of a new city. It has been twelve years, a dozen like the dozen or two of these roses in the green rubber band. A band of rubber or a band of gold. A band to beat the band--gold, rubberized my finger until the flesh beneath it shrank. Hand swollen from baby-carrying, baby-feeding, baby-weight left over. The band gone, the ring off. Now the finger back to the old size, the band faded marking from the flesh.

The band he was with. And the band he was. And eating was not, and wine was, and the dance of band and roses on the side table. The roses were not red. They were not yellow. They were this color, color of paper lightly singed, color of burnt sugar and cream, color of time this time and mine. Mine.

around again: tuesday

the day heats up
the track is not yet steaming
each lap another key,
another key, turn it on the ring
put it in a basket
(a-tisket a-tasket)
send the basket up the river
with the barges
and the water taxis
send it up the river,
send it to the bronx
the island, the harbor,
the great big old atlantic

anniversaire

It would have been our twelfth wedding anniversary. I guess it sort of still was, although there is no longer a "we" to celebrate it.

Instead, I had a lovely dinner with my lovely friend Denise at Pastis. The weather was perfect for sitting outside, the food was good, the conversation excellent, and the crowd lively enough to bring some cheer.

fab fourth

Yesterday I spent the evening with good pals Greg and Jeremy and an assorted cast of walk-ons.

We started at the Whiskey Ward, described in one review as a "No bullshit saloon off Delancey Street for serious drinkers," then headed to Schiller's Liquor Bar for dinner (yes, it's a restaurant, too), where we saw Sex and the City's Chris Noth and John Corbett enjoying cocktails at the bar.

We didn't make it to Greg's apartment rooftop, as planned, for the Macy's fireworks--we rather lamely watched some of the glow from the street outside Schiller's--but it was a great time nonetheless.

before they get better...

Things decidedly did not get better yesterday. The person I have started to refer to as my "baby daddy" was so dreadfully ill (he told me he was "wreathing" in pain) that I had to fend for myself with last-minute, cobbled-together childcare.

I did not make it to Transitcenter to pick up my replacement Metrocard before they closed (early, at 3). In fact, I barely made it to my evening class. But I made it, and it was awesome.

(For those of you illustrator types who are reading: you rock! But you knew that already.)

And now guess who has the parvovirus rash, which is not common among adults, especially on the face?

Yep. And on the face, too.

But I am going to the gym, no matter what. And I have plans to drink whiskey on the Lower East Side this evening. And watch fireworks from a rooftop. It's an improvised Fourth, with a few good friends.

I have a really thoughtful introspective little piece on Independence Day in the works. May not get it up here until the 5th, but I will, I promise.

Happy Fireworks!

and now for the other shoe....

Bobby had a fever of 102 last night. So he's not immune. Thank goodness for ibuprofen, the miracle drug.

In an experience reminiscent of the run-around Vicki got with Evan's prescription for orthotics, had an unsuccessful and very frustrating attempt to replace my Transitchek Metrocard yesterday. I made a frantic trip to their offices near Bryant Park only to be told that they did not replace cards after 3 p.m. (although their website says only that they are open until 4:30) and thus will spend an additional $4 in fares before getting my new one today. This time for sure!

Plop.

it's official: i'm falling apart

When I was a kid my brothers and I had this little ditty we would sing from time to time: I'm falling apart, diddle-a-dih-dih. It had somehow surfaced admid the aural chaos on one of the many "radio plays" we recorded on the battery-powered cassette recorder--mostly unscripted and improvised, and usually hilarious. Much to our mother's chagrin, the private joke--at least the "diddle-a-dih-dih" part--survived well into high school, and even infected some of our school chums.

It's an apt tune for the way I'm feeling right now. I don't want to be an alarmist here, but I am fairly sure I have, if not lost, then seriously misplaced my datebook/calendar/addressbook. A.K.A. my Life. I think the last time I saw it alive was last Wednesday, when I went to my poetry group meeting. I think I had my West Chester Poetry Conference brief-bag, rather than my omnipresent backpack, but it's not there. Nor is it in either of my backpacks (the Gym backpack and the Work backpack), nor any of my purses, nor my myriad AWP souvenir totes.

It's not in the kitchen. It's not anywhere in my bedroom, at least not that I can see. I checked under the bed, even. I'm hoping it will surface somewhere around the apartment.

In other news, our family has been struck by Parvovirus 19, the cause of Stella's yucky rash. Unfortunately, you don't really know the child has it until they get the characteristic rash, and by that time the contagious period (which has lasted the previous week) is basically over. Now Bob and I obviously have it (joint and muscle aches, fever, general malaise and Extreme Crankiness, which makes things just that much more pleasant under the circumstances).

This article has more info if you are interested. My favorite part is this:
Many adults and some children develop joint pain (arthralgia) or joint swelling (arthritis) weeks after the parvovirus B 19 infection. Involvement is usually symmetrical and most often involves the hands, wrists, knees, and ankles. Joint difficulty can wax and wane for months and usually disappears without causing permanent damage,

Yikes. That'll put a damper on my burgeoning athletic career. And it's a perfect day for a run in Astoria Park, too.

Bobby, so far, is fine--and we hope he does not get it, perhaps being immune from a previous infection. He has been happily attending his TaeKwonDo summer camp where he learns "Confidense [sic] Discipline Respect" and bows to the Korean and American flags. He also goes swimming, does arts and crafts, and generally bonds with some cool kids--and, best of all, is not sitting around whining and playing Nintendo DS or Wii. The first morning he got there and immediately started pounding the heavy bag with some cohorts (despite a lingering shiner from his playground incident and a sore arm from a reaction to a booster shot). He's doing great.

Ok, potty time for Stella Bella. It's a beautiful day, and I may be able to trundle outside for a bit with her, at least to do laundry, before heading to FIT to prepare for another session of my night class.

gone with the wind

Today on the way in to teach my fabulous Creative Writing for Illustrators class for FIT's M.A. program in Illustration (I'm so lucky to get to work with these excellent people--and I'm not just saying that because I told them about my blog and some of them will be reading this), I made it onto a W train that was just about to pull out of the station. For some reason, the trains were all running on the middle tracks, which meant they were express from Astoria Blvd to Queensborough Plaza. It also meant they were packed, especially the car I was in, even at 2:30 in the afternoon.

I walked to the front of the car in search of a seat, or at least a space to lean. I settled on the space in front of the doors, which I knew would be opening at the next stop. I was holding one of my prized possessions, my Transitchek Unlimited Metrocard--I am not exaggerating when I say that Transitchek has saved my life. They deduct the fee pre-tax from my paychek, and I get to ride subways and buses as much as I darn well please.

I have been keeping the card in my wallet, and make a habit of replacing it right after I use it, but after paying my fare I had to run up the stairs and catch the departing train. I turned to try and open my backpack, and the card flipped suddenly out of my hands. It landed, not on the floor, but in the interstices between the door and the doorway--I watched helplessly as my dear unlimited Metrocard slid swiftly, so swiftly, through the crack and, presumably, to the outside of the train car.

This means (1) I have to pay $4 in fares I normally would not. And (2) I have to spend some of my valuable time tomorrow getting a replacement card at the midtown offices of the Transitchek company--not at all on my way to anywhere I need to go. Just what I would love to be doing. Sigh.

i hear music when i look at you

What could be better than Sinatra singing "The Song Is You" with the Billy May Orchestra?

Ella Fitzgerald singing "All the Things You Are," perhaps?

Or what about Peggy Lee's version of "Bali H'ai"?

My goosebumps have goosebumps, courtesy of Michael Bourne on WBGO.

june is bustin' out

Just heard a fabulous big band version of the classic from Carousel by Frank West (thank you, WBGO). I can't believe this month, the most brilliant of the year, is almost over. It's been a rough one--work, family, "personal issues," etc.

Two of my dearest relatives have been in the hospital with conditions related to kidney stones (they're doing OK, but it's tough). The kids have ended the school year with a few minor but uncomfortable ailments--Stella has some sort of virus (Coxsackie or Fifth Disease) that has put her under the weather for a few days--the rash appeared today. And Bobby bruised his eye and cheek area in a playground incident ("Daniel pushed me into Adrian") and had to get an xray yesterday that, thankfully, ruled out a broken cheekbone.

I finally gave in and, after vacuuming with our limping Hoover, turned on the AC. Ahhhh. Tonight the kids are with their dad, and after I finish a bit of the mountain of online grading, it's vegan dining with a Very Cool Poet Girlfriend and drinks afterwards, perhaps with others joining us.

temperat-ure

Summer is here, the weather changing--I never know whether to turn on the AC or not. Today I had it on, went out for a run around 2:30, felt a stiff breeze off the East River, came back, turned it off, opened the windows.

Then the temp started to rise so that by 8 p.m. it had risen to the mid-80s. Sticky again. But I'm sticking with fans only for now.

Wherever you go in the temperate zones you'll hear, "We have a saying around here: 'If you don't like the weather, wait. It'll change.'"

Don't you just love quotes embedded in quotes?

Sigh. My arm hurts, folks. I think I need to change my typing positions--I guess semireclined position is not conducive to healthy ergonomics.

Forgive me my nonblogginess. Life is just so unreadable right now it's hard to write about it. I hope you understand.

Oh, and does anyone happen to have extra reservations to see Sonic Youth at Battery Park on the 4th?

my new favorite blog: kids say the darnedest...

Breaking my nearly month-long silence to give a shout-out to Evan Said It, blogmeistered by Eric McHenry, a very tall, very fine, very funny poet I know from the West Chester Poetry Conference (and my friend Jessica). Eric reports, apparently verbatim, the cool/cute/hilarious/scary-smart things his kids Evan and Sage say.

My favorite post so far is this one. Visit and be amused, be very amused.

we love dan zanes and friends!!!

Stella and I had a very special outing on Saturday--Emma Sage and her mom, Tara, invited us to help celebrate Emma's 7th birthday with a trip to see Dan Zanes and friends at the Highline Ballroom. Well, for various reasons I didn't try to get tickets until the week before, and it was too late: sold out.

But all was not lost. Tara emailed Dan through his website about Stella and Emma, and someone from his record company called her and said they would leave two tickets under my name! Lo and behold, Stella and I were on the guest list! It reminded me of my Boston days, going to rock shows (including Dan's band the Del Fuegos).

Stella and I also said hello to Saskia Lane, who plays bass for Dan's band, and who is in a great gal group called The Lascivious Biddies with our friend Deidre Rodman.

We had a great time--the girls became instant friends and danced a lot to the awesome sounds of the myriad musicians Dan has gathered around him. I especially enjoyed the performance of La Bruja, whom I'd just seen a few weeks ago at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe celebration at Town Hall. Afterwards, we had a wonderful outing along the Hudson River waterfront.

Thank you Tara and Emma! Thank you, Dan and Friends! See you soon!

fine motor: the chapbook

It's here! I got my first shipment from Sow's Ear Poetry Review Press. Cover design and illustration by the fabulous Bri Hermanson.

Come hear me read from it tomorrow night at Perch Cafe in Park Slope, Brooklyn!

red hen in da house

Red Hen Press (aka "the gang from the Coast" aka "my" publisher aka some really rockin' folks) are in town this week. Check out the readings if you can:

FRIDAY, 7:00 P.M.
May 16, 2008
KGB Bar
85 East 4th Street
Featuring: Nick Flynn
Jennifer Michael Hecht
Nickole Brown

SUNDAY, 6:00 P.M.
May 18, 2008
Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery
Featuring: Steve Huff
Kurt Brown
Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Brooke Bognanni
Nickole Brown

TUESDAY, 6:00 P.M.
May 20, 2008
Cornelia Street Café
29 Cornelia Street
Featuring: Kate Gale
Sarah Bein
Greg Sanders

blushing and crunching

It's still very much crunch time, but I wanted to give a shout-out for the latest book by the fabulous Molly Peacock, The Second Blush. I'm going to hear Molly read from the book tonight at the Ceres Gallery in Chelsea (aka the Work 'Hood). Can't wait to get my hands on a copy!

And an update: strings were pulled, and we got Dan Zanes tickets! I'm ecstatic. More later. Thank you, Tara!

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul... my course runs below the soundings of plummet...
I am an acme of things accomplished... and I am an encloser of things to be...

crunch time

It's the end of the semester at FIT, and I'm hunkered down with stacks of poems, stories, journals, and other papers--all wonderful, but a bit overwhelming all at once. One week left, and then Commencement is Tuesday the 20th at Radio City!

By the way, if anybody knows how to get tickets to the Dan Zanes concert at the High Line Ballroom on Saturday 5/17, let me know!

a child said, "what is the grass?"

....fetching it to me with full hands.

If you care about Whitman, and about music, buy, steal, download this CD.

I guess the grass is itself a child.

If you care about poetry, and Nick Cave, and harlots, and Emily Dickinson t-shirts, read this blog.

Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal you have given me love
therefore I to you give love.
O unspeakable passionate love.

I have such a crush on Kurt Elling!

We also descend, dazzling and tremendous as the sun
We found our own o my soul in the calm and cool of the evening

God bless Fred Hersch....

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul
my course runs below the soundings of plummet

karmic cords

More wisdom from Debbie Ford:

Our emotional wounds unwittingly echo the pain of our past and act as guides leading us to those places within ourselves that need healing. These wounds cause us to resonate with people who have similar or matching unhealed emotional issues. Attaching us to these people are energetic connectors I think of as karmic cords. There is a sense of destiny at work here: these karmic cords--cords of fate--bring people into our lives who are tailor-made to bring us the spiritual experiences we need to complete ourselves.

Although lately I have been questioning my supposed belief in fate, karma, signs, divine direction, or anything that would imply that this universe is anything other than random, I find this idea appealing. It certainly would explain a couple of recent experiences that have left me pretty shaken up (or "all shook up," as Elvis would say). It would explain why I was so powerfully drawn into these situations, and why they imploded so rapidly and painfully. And also why I feel like I've learned from them and why, while I wish I did not have to experience the pain, I don't regret them.

One thing is for sure: a lot of us are running around with huge wounds, and it's a dangerous emotional world out there. Despite the perils, though, I for one believe it's worth it to connect with others. Although I'm drawing the shutters on my heart for the time being, I'm not sorry I opened them for awhile, and can't imagine it will be long before I open them again. And hopefully I've gained one or two good friends along the way.

the ghost in you

Right now I'm listening to that lovely song by the Psychedelic Furs--the first band I ever saw live, at the Newport Theater in Columbus, Ohio.

Ain't it just like rain
and love love love love
is only heaven away...

Inside you the time moves and she don't fade
the ghost in you she don't fade
Ahhhhhhhhh.

roethke, roethke, here he goes again

From tonight's Writer's Almanac:

For An Amorous Lady
Most mammals like caresses, in the sense in which we
usually take the word, whereas other creatures, even tame
snakes, prefer giving to receiving them.
-- From a Natural-History Book

The pensive gnu, the staid aardvark,
Accept caresses in the dark;
The bear, equipped with paw and snout;
Would rather take than dish it out.

But snakes, both poisonous and garter,
In love are never known to barter;
The worm, though dank, is sensitive:
His noble nature bids him give.

But you, my dearest, have a soul
Encompassing fish, flesh, and fowl.
When amorous arts we would pursue,
You can, with pleasure, bill or coo.
You are, in truth, one in a million,
At once mammalian and reptilian.

how soon is now?

Back in the late 80s when I lived in Boston, K. and I would come home from another night partying with hipsters, collapse on our separate couches, and listen to the Smiths. This tune with Johnny Mars' hypnotic guitar riffs, was one of our favorites.

How funny that the lyrics appeal to me now as much as they did two decades ago. These returned to me today during the second mile of a particularly cathartic run:

How can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does.

I actually started singing out loud for almost an entire lap. It helped. The heart finds healing in strange ways.

supper

For some reason I had a hankering for good old-fashioned tuna noodle casserole. Here's what I came up with, courtesy of Epicurious.com: Tuna Noodle Casserole with Fresh Herbs. I used farfalle pasta instead of noodles, added a splash of vermouth to the mushrooms, and the herbs were dried. On the side? Baby bok choy sauteed with garlic and scallions. Perfect.

no drama

"Acceptance comes when we step out of denial and judgment and are willing to see the present exactly as it exists in this moment, without any drama or story line. Drama keeps us stuck in an endless spiral of excuses that prevent us from being able to distinguish between fact and fantasy. Our drama serves as a defense mechanism designed to protect us from the pain of our past. When we're caught up in our drama, we are no longer living in the present moment. Instead, we get hooked into every similar experience from our past that was left unhealed. We think we are responding to the challenges of our lives when in fact we are reacting to all of our unresolved pain."

--Debbie Ford, Spiritual Divorce

Read more here.

music is life

Vicki Forman's Special Needs Mama column is always inspiring, but this month's piece resonates with me in a special way. She writes about music--how it brought her and her husband together with a shock (literally), and how important it has become in her son Evan's life.

One of the students in my online creative writing class, noticing the references to music in my poems, asks about the influence music has on my writing. Music is, simply put, one of the driving forces of my life. I studied piano and violin for years, and eventually also picked up the oboe and trumpet. In high school I played in the band, orchestra, and marching band (yes, I was a band geek) and was voted "most musical" in my senior class. I started college at Ohio Wesleyan as a music major for one term before switching to English and following my other love, writing. I still stayed active, though, by DJing on the college radio station.

And, of course, I have had a talented musician and composer in my life for 15 years. Even though our relationship has changed, I admire his commitment to his art and appreciate how he has been able to pass it along to our kids. Bobby and Stella express their musical heritage in various ways--playing the keyboard, guitar, and drums enthusiastically. This photo shows Stella sitting in with Dad and some other New York jazz musicians at the Pompanuck Farm Institute. I hope she and her brother will always find music an outlet for expression and joy, as I have.

heartland

The land that I come from they call the Midwest. And I guess it's true that you can take the girl out of the heartland, but can't take the heartland out of the girl.

Theodore Roethke was also a Midwesterner--from Michigan, not far from my homeland of Ohio. His large and expansive heart eventually gave out, but he left us some beautiful poems.

Open House

My secrets cry aloud.
I have no need for tongue.
My heart keeps open house,
My doors are widely swung.
An epic of the eyes
My love, with no disguise.

My truths are all foreknown,
This anguish self-revealed.
I'm naked to the bone,
With nakedness my shield.
Myself is what I wear:
I keep the spirit spare.

The anger will endure,
The deed will speak the truth
In language strict and pure.
I stop the lying mouth:
Rage warps my clearest cry
To witless agony.

Oh my. The first two stanzas really resonate with me, but that last one is a bit too much, don't you think? Breathe, Ted!

strange delightful sweet unspiteful

Stella and I have been having regular "dance time" these days--when something good comes on the radio (and when we're listening to WFUV it happens pretty frequently) I start dancing and she joins in.

Today before work Mike Doughty's "27 Jennifers" came on--it's my current fave pop song and I find I cannot help but start moving when I hear it--and Stella quickly joined me. Next they played Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic." Sweet.

What a great way to start the day before heading off to my Creative Imagination class!

poems in pockets

Thursday was Poem in Your Pocket Day, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that my brilliant son had found out about it in school. On Wednesday, he came back from the playground with an index card on which he had written a poem of his own composition:

My Magic Bookcase

by Bobby Bowen

I have a magic bookcase
it flew me into space
then I joined the space-race...
and got to this strange place

For my part, I forgot about the whole thing (having been meaning to prepare well in advance) until fairly late in the day. The poem I chose is from John Berryman's Sonnets to Chris, that weird, heart-racing, compelling sequence written in 1947 and first published in 1966:

Keep your eyes open when you kiss: do: when
You kiss. All silly time else, close them to;
Unsleeping, I implore you (dear) pursue
In darkness me, as I do you again
Instantly we part . . only me both then
And when your fingers fall, let there be two
Only, ‘in that dream-kingdom’: I would have you
Me alone recognize your citizen.

Before who wanted eyes, making love, so?
I do now. However we are driven and hide,
What state we keep all other states condemn,
We see ourselves, we watch the solemn glow
Of empty courts we kiss in . . Open wide!
You do, you do, and I look into them.

beliefs, a manifesto?

Well, I think I believe in astrology, too, because out of the blue today my dear friend Tatyana emailed me my weekly horoscope, and here's what it said:

This would be a perfect time for you to write your ultimate personal manifesto. I'm talking about composing a sweeping statement of the core ideas that fuel your lust for life. To get you in the mood, take a look at the following lyrics from Danny Schmidt's song "Company of Friends." "I believe in restless hunger . . . I believe in private thunder . . . I believe in inspiration . . . I believe in slow creation . . . I believe in lips on ears . . . I believe in being wrong . . . I believe in contradiction . . . I believe in living smitten . . . I believe our book is written by our company of friends."

Here's the kicker: Tatyana had not read the previous blog posting. She just thought the horoscope was cool. She's one of several close pals who have been "coaching" and otherwise inspiring me in various ways. In fact, I'm fortunate to have a little group of amazing women, including Moira , Marilyn, and Kathrine, who have been supporting and sustaining each other, artistically and personally--by email. We meet in our virtual ladies' room nearly every day from our various homes across the U.S.--and Europe, in Moira's case. It's a remarkable partnership.

I believe in friendship. And cruciferous vegetables. Tonight's selection: broccoli rabe!

this i believe

A friend with whom I share a particular sort of religious upbringing recently suggested that, while he had thoroughly rejected his own background, I still held onto parts of mine. Now because this friend is pretty perceptive, I paused for a moment to consider his comment. Then I replied, "I suppose you're right." I do feel a strong emotional connection to my family's faith. "But," I concluded. "I have beliefs that don't necessarily have anything to do with my religious upbringing."

I've been mulling this over for a few days and thought I'd try to articulate some of these thoughts. In truth, some of my "beliefs" have probably been more superstitious than I would care to admit. I recall being in church as a kid one time when I had a bad cold and thinking that, if I sang along with the hymns, God would heal my sore throat. It was sort of like avoiding cracks in the sidewalk, or counting the letters of your crush's name on your fingers and thinking that if the count ends on your ring finger, you'll get married.

A brief inventory:

I believe in signs and oracles.
I believe in change and miracles.
I believe in prayer and supplication.
I believe in spells and incantations.
I believe in rites and rituals.
I believe in faith and works.
I believe in meditation and in action.
I believe in good and evil. Sometimes they are hard to tell apart.
I believe in karma.
I believe in chance and opportunity.
I believe in hope despite the fears.
I believe in Jesus. And Mohammad. And the Buddha. And more.
I believe in divinity and holiness.
I believe in the human spirit.
I believe in imagination.
I believe in the power of language and music and art.
I believe in love...I believe in children...I believe in Mom and Dad... (thank you, Don Williams)
I believe in the chakras. I believe in my third eye and when I close my eyes and see dark blue I know an insight is coming.

I am not a pagan, a wiccan, an atheist, any sort of "-ist" in particular--although if you are it's OK with me. I'm not about to try and change your mind. I'm too busy singing. Perhaps, come to think of it, music is my religion. Or maybe I'm really a Quaker.

I believe that tarot is one of many ways to find out what's going on inside yourself. My tarot card for today is The Sun. I'm a Leo, and it's spring, so I'm definitely feeling it right this minute! Time to go outside and worship on this gorgeous day.

remembering Uncle Jim

This week my family lost one of our last members of the Greatest Generation: James Grimm, my father's uncle. Jim served in the Signal Corps of the Army Air Corps during World War II and his stories of the Asian theater were always fascinating. Jim's unflappable demeanor and dry humor will be greatly missed. I was very close to Jim and would visit him and my Aunt Betty whenever I got back to Springfield. I loved the way he would call me "Kid" (as in "How you doing, kid?" even when I had kids of my own. Unfortunately, I was unable to get there for the memorial service today. I'm trying to be there in spirit as much as possible.
The photo was taken on his wedding day, July 9, 1942. He and Aunt Betty got married in New Jersey while he was on a brief leave.
To read the obituary, click here.

elvis nick and robyn on youtube

click here
You can probably hear me screaming from the back row.

Robyn, Nick and....ELVIS?

Last night I was fortunate to be in attendance at a fantastic concert by Nick Lowe and Robyn Hitchcock. Both of these exquisitely quirky artists gave compelling performances, solo and on acoustic guitar, showcasing their brilliance as songwriters, guitarists, singers.

I laughed a lot, cried a little, sang along a great deal. As Nick's set seemed to be drawing to a close, though, I commented to my companion that, amazing as it was, the pace was a bit more sedate than I had expected. Little did I know that some more excitement was in store.

At the encore, they were joined onstage by none other than Elvis Costello! Imagine an auditorium full of people in, um, "late youth" jumping up and down and screaming their heads off. Elvis and Nick did a tune that E had written for N, "Indoor Fireworks." Then Robyn joined them to sing lead on two numbers: "If I Fell" by the Beatles, and the classic "Mystery Train" (Elvis even did a bit of an impersonation of the other Elvis on that one).

Photo blatantly stolen from--er--courtesy of this fine blogger.

A stellar evening. I wish you all could have been there!

happy birthday, DAD!

Seventy years ago a very wise man was born on April Fool's Day. I'm proud to call him Dad. His six children were anxious to make this birthday very special, and fortunately my brilliant sisters Jane and Katy got the idea to put together a photo-memory book. Each of us wrote about our favorite memories of our father, and Jane collected photos of us and our families. Thanks to technology, Jane was able to email an image of the book to all of us, and Katy ordered a copy to be sent to her so she could present it to Dad tonight. Here you can see that it went over pretty big with the birthday boy. (If you click on the second pic above you'll get a good look at the cover photo, taken by my uncle Richard Lemmon, and catch a glimpse of a certain skinny college sophomore.) Below is my contribution to the collection:
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Dad: It’s a Musical Life

What I remember most about Dad is his love of music. He loves to sing, and has even been known to play piano on occasion, but most of all he loves to listen to recordings—classical, jazz, pop, even classic rock. When I was a little kid and we lived on Woodside Avenue, he had a collection of records, some of which were from his college days, and would play his favorites over and over on the black record player with the automatic changer. The album covers would be arranged on the floor near the stereo, and their images remain with me—the abstract painting on Dave Brubeck’s Time Out, which looked like eyes or the design on peacock feathers (I remember trying, and failing, to make sense of it); Scheherezade, with a suggestive female figure behind a gauzy scrim; The 1812 Overture with a maroon-tinged photograph of a cannon.

Dad played music at night while reading on the couch, and the strains reached me in my bed, upstairs on Woodside, or in the northeast corner of 1800 Fairfield Pike. I don’t think Dad turned down the music when we went to bed, so it swelled and faded as the dynamics of the piece required. One time when Mother was out for the evening with girlfriends and Dad was watching my little brother Davy and me, I woke up shortly after being put to bed and wandered downstairs, disoriented and crying. I must have been four or five. Dad comforted me by putting on my new Cinderella record, and looking with me at the storybook attached to the album cover.

Like his father before him, Dad always kept up with the latest audiophile technology. In the Seventies, he tried eight-track tapes and his favorites, as I recall, were the Carpenters, The Best of Bread, and several volumes by Percy Faith and Sergio Mendes. When compact discs became available, he switched to the new format as soon as possible. Now that technology enables music lovers to find and acquire a staggering range of recordings from mainstream to obscure, Dad has been able to create his own “best of” collections from the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties and beyond. Music is something Dad loves to share with us, as he always has, and I believe that his love of it has been passed down to each of us children in our own way. It is indeed a great and powerful gift that will last our lifetimes.

amy, meet amy

Most regular readers of this blog are aware that I have some intense things going on in my personal life. Let's just say that this is a new era, my life is changing a great deal, and I am trying to keep perspective and do what I can to make sure that these changes have more positive than negative effects (for myself and my children).

In an earnest email exchange recently, a dear, very wise friend (who happens to be a kick-ass creativity and writing coach) took time out of her own hectic life to offer me some "navigational and loving support ideas," as she so accurately called them. She urged me to take advantage of this transitional period to try something new that will symbolize a new time in my life, "an AMY TIME."

Over the weekend the kids went with their dad to the Pompanuck Farm Institute for a country sojourn. This gave me the opportunity not only to spend time with family and friends, but to get reacquainted with this person I am, and see who I am becoming. Yoga helps, as do other forms of exercise. The right music makes a big difference. And, of course, writing--and reading. I've finally gotten a hold of Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat. Pray. Love. after about a million people recommended it to me, and have been clutching it like a sort of life preserver.

I am blessed with an amazing team of friends and family. It's so great to have them on my side. And more and more, I feel like I'm on my own side, too.

NJ redux: the bus for us

So I figured out the best way to reach my destination in New Jersey: via the Port Authority! Yesterday I went to a wedding shower for my dear cousin Dana and took my first-ever bus trip out of the city. I was running late, as usual, so had to rush to grab a ticket and literally run up two flights of stairs and an escalator. I envisioned running after the bus as it was pulling away, but when I got to Gate 405 I saw a whole queue of passengers lining up to the door. They were somewhat amused by the crazy lady huffing and puffing and asking if this was the 46 West bus to Pine Brook.

It was, and the ride was smooth, quick, and uneventful. It was weird being dropped off by the side of a highway, but my Uncle Phil was waiting at the stop, and then whisked me away to the Valhalla Lake Club for a lovely brunch.

After the party I went back to Uncle Phil and Aunt Cheryl's house to hang out with the fam--I especially enjoyed spending some quality time with my cousin Shelley, who lives in Ohio. The bus home was just as convenient (although it showed up at the stop a bit late), and fortunately we didn't hit any traffic going into the tunnel. I think this will be one of my preferred modes of travel to and from the Garden State!

life as they know it

Well, it certainly has been an exciting weekend for us! Today Bobby, Stella, and I visited the home of three of my personal heroes: Michael Berube, Janet Lyon, and their amazing son, Jamie. Michael's book, Life As We Know It: A Father, A Family, and an Exceptional Child was one of the first things I read after Stella was born. I found it comforting and helpful on so many levels to read of their experience as intellectuals and academics whose second son was born with Down syndrome.

I'd been hoping to meet them ever since I realized they had moved to the town where my brother David lives. This weekend it finally worked out, and our Stella Bella had a grand time exploring their lovely home, with Jamie as tourguide. Michael and Janet generously shared experiences, advice, and coffee with me--and Jamie generously shared a stuffed doggie with Stella! He also performed feats of memory and, in the photo above, attempted to balance a plate of pepperjack cheese on his father's head. Truly a wonderful visit with an inspiring family.

and the winner is...the amazing VICKI FORMAN!

I'm so excited I can hardly stand it--one of my bestest mama blogger friends, Vicki, has won the 2008 Bakeless Literary Prize for creative nonfiction! Her powerful, beautifully written memoir, This Lovely Life, will be published by Houghton Mifflin.

Please stop by her blog to congratulate her, and to read about her lovely and amazing family. Then go to Literary Mama and read up on her Special Needs Mama columns.

CONGRATULATIONS, VICKI! GO GIRL!!!

happy world down syndrome day!

March 21 has been designated World Down Syndrome Day (get it? trisomy 21, 3/21?). This website has more information about commemorations 'round the world.

Now I need to go keep Princess Stella from getting black bean quesadilla on her Cinderella dress!

harold and kumar got nothin' on me

I haven't seen the movie, but I can relate to the main characters' being lost on the highways and biways of our great neighboring state of New Jersey. It never fails: No matter how explicit and clear the directions, I simply cannot find my way around!

I learned of this deficiency while trying to get to family events in Bergen County and was painfully reminded as I roamed around the Woodbridge area yesterday trying to meet a friend for coffee. It took me almost as long to find the Starbucks on Route 1/9 as it had to get from the state line to Exit 10. But at least I got to spend a few minutes with my friend. And I got my latte.

beating the retreat

It's spring break, and here I am in Maryland for a few days, getting away from it all, whatever "it" is. Of course, so much of "it" comes with one wherever one goes. Sigh.

In any case, just spent a rejuvenating weekend with two of the smartest, kindest, coolest, dearest people I know: Jane and Ned. Many delightful hours of conversation about poetry, music, teaching, parenting, and a few other, less serious topics. I left with a head full of wisdom and a bookbag full of newly burned cds--Robyn Hitchcock, John Wesley Harding, Elliott Smith, etc.

Now I'm retreating on my own at a remote location in the countryside. I'll write more about it later--for now, enjoy the pond, which is right outside my window. Time for a hike!

Governor Paterson

It's just been announced: Spitzer has stepped down, and David Paterson is our new governor.

The circumstances are hideous, but I couldn't be more pleased at the outcome. Our first African-American governor, and one who (having a disability himself) is known for his advocacy for the visually and physically impaired. Columbia and Hofstra grad, father of two.

Go, Gov!

And hey, I just found out that they proclaimed March Developmental Disabilities Month in New York state. Who knew?